


The Headmaster's Quarters

by Lillyjk



Series: Headmaster Coulson [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, College Student Clint Barton, Headmaster Phil Coulson, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Power Dynamics, authority figure kink, dirty talking, potential abuse of authority
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillyjk/pseuds/Lillyjk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The headmaster's hand tightens.  "I'm very much aware of your age, Mr. Barton.  And your legal status.  No smoking."  His eyes are very blue, very intense as they study Clint from behind his glasses.</p><p> </p><p>"Uh, ok."  Clint says because what the fuck?  He's twenty he can smoke.  He won't smoke in the headmaster's house or anything, but he can smoke.</p><p> </p><p>Headmaster Coulson leans into Clint's space, close enough that Clint can smell his expensive cologne.  The hand on his arm goes tighter still.  "Mr. Barton, the proper response is yes, Sir."</p><p> </p><p>Clint just barely swallows the sound that rises in his throat,  this man is doing something, hitting buttons Clint didn't know he had.  He licks his lips, drops his eyes from that knowing stare.  "Yes, Sir."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so this all started as a spin off of the original Headmaster Coulson fic because the only thing better than Headmaster Coulson with an unknown naughty female student was Headmaster Coulson with a rebellious young Clint Barton. This story is completely independent of the other one so you don't have to read the other one to read this one. I have no clue when this will update because it's just a little happy making porn tennis that AdamantSteve and I started tossing around on tumblr a couple of months ago.

 

It's a long standing tradition to help out needy Wharington students because Broodmoar Academy is traditionally a prep school that funnels excelling students straight into Wharington College.

**  
**

Mr. Barton was an excellent candidate for the position because he's nationally ranked for his archery skills and Broodmoar is always trying to expand its athletic programs into new areas.  The fact that Mr. Barton is a little...rough around the edges just means that Headmaster Coulson will have to be extra diligent in making sure the young man reaches his potential.

**  
**

He's only been in residence a day when Headmaster Coulson smells cigarette smoke on him the first time.

**  
**

They pass in the entryway. Clint is on his way in from an early morning run, his face pink cheeked from the cool autumn air.  He's wearing a sleeveless tshirt that exposes his biceps and shorts that cling to muscular thighs.  The shirt is damp with sweat at the neckline.

**  
**

Headmaster Coulson is already dressed for the day in a dark suit with a light blue shirt and navy silk tie with a neat Windsor knot.  He intimidates Clint a little bit, maybe a lot bit, with his put together perfection.  His eyes sweep over Clint, a quick head to toe appraisal.

**  
**

"Morning," Clint says dutifully.  He feels underdressed, exposed.  He wants to hurry to his room and shower and dress but at the same time a part of him wants to linger, see if he can get the headmaster to pay attention to him.

**  
**

Headmaster Coulson nods at him as he walks past and then stops, his hand reaching out to wrap around Clint's elbow and stop his forward motion.  "Mr.  Barton,  do I smell cigarettes?"

**  
**

Clint's arm feels hot where Headmaster Coulson's hand is wrapped around it.  "Umm, maybe.  I mean, yeah.  It's okay, though.  I'm legal."

**  
**

The headmaster's hand tightens.  "I'm very much aware of your age, Mr. Barton.  And your legal status.  No smoking."  His eyes are very blue, very intense as they study Clint from behind his glasses.

**  
**

"Uh, ok."  Clint says because what the fuck?  He's twenty he can smoke.  He won't smoke in the headmaster's house or anything, but he can smoke.

**  
**

Headmaster Coulson leans into Clint's space, close enough that Clint can smell his expensive cologne.  The hand on his arm goes tighter still.  "Mr. Barton, the proper response is yes, Sir."

**  
**

Clint just barely swallows the sound that rises in his throat,  this man is doing something, hitting buttons Clint didn't know he had.  He licks his lips, drops his eyes from that knowing stare.  "Yes, Sir."

**  
**

Headmaster Coulson releases his arm, steps back.  "Much better, Mr. Barton."

**  
**

Clint doesn't look up until he hears the door shut as the Headmaster closes it behind him.

**  
**

**

**  
**

Clint might have agreed to ‘no smoking’ but Coulson never really stipulated any specifics, and besides, Clint thinks as he flips open his trusty zippo and leans back against the far wall of the gymnasium, Headmaster Coulson’s not the boss of him.  
  


He feels Coulson’s attention on him whenever they pass in the hallway, and that firm hand catches his elbow countless times, with Coulson gazing at him with those piercing eyes and firmly reiterating the school’s no smoking policy.  
  


It’s ridiculous really, but Clint kind of enjoys the thrill of getting away with something right under the man’s nose, even if it is something as relatively innocent as smoking behind the damn gym. Clint’s jacked cars before, started fights in bars, all sorts of crap before he got straightened out at Wharington; a cigarette is nothing.  
  


But something about the way it makes Coulson’s nostrils flare and his jaw tighten that make smoking suddenly Clint’s absolute favourite thing. It makes him feel like he is flouting all the rules and getting away with murder.  
  


Cause Coulson is so controlled and in charge, but Clint can sense how easy it would be to tip that control off balance if he just pushed… and Clint can’t help himself from pushing just a little…  
  


He's been living at Broodmoar a little over three weeks when it comes to a head.

**  
**

His classes at Wharington are going well.  He fulfills his obligations to Broodmoar by spending a couple of hours a few afternoons a week on the archery range trying to get these ridiculous girls to pay attention to form with a bow and arrow.  They're more interested in his form but he finds their childish attempts at flirtation boring.  

**  
**

They don't tempt him in the least.

**  
**

It's not these silly girls flouncing around in short skirts that make him wake up hard and thrusting into his hand every night.

**  
**

He finishes up another mind-numbing session of archery lessons and heads to his usual spot for a quick smoke.  When he slouches against the gym wall and reaches in his pocket for his cigarettes he wishes he'd brought a jacket.  It's gone late September and there's a chill in the air now that the afternoon sun is fading.

**  
**

Headmaster Coulson was wearing a beautiful camel overcoat unbuttoned over his dark gray suit when Clint passed him in the hall this morning.  It had emphasized the width of his shoulders, not that Clint noticed that shit or anything.  

**  
**

Clint fishes his phone out of his other pocket, slips his earbuds in and flips through his playlist until he finds some Zeppelin.   He lights his cigarette and takes a long draw off it, letting his eyes close as he thinks about the Headmaster and his coat.

**  
**

The coat looked warm, like it held the body heat close to the Headmaster's skin.  He wonders what it would feel like to have Coulson strip that coat off and drape it over Clint's shoulders while it was still warm from his own body.  

**  
**

When the cigarette is snatched out of his mouth he thinks he's conjured the man up at first.  His eyes fly open, hands pulling the earbuds away, tinny sounds of music still drifting out from where they dangle.

**  
**

Headmaster Coulson is standing in front of him in that beautiful coat, Clint's cigarette held between his thumb and index finger.  "Mr. Barton, you persist is trying my patience."  His eyes bore into Clint's.

**  
**

"Smoking is a vile habit.  It will not be tolerated at Broodmoar."  He reaches out his other hand, the one not holding the cigarette and presses two fingers against Clint's mouth.  "Lick." Headmaster Coulson orders.

**  
**

What the?  Clint is going to protest, really he is.  Somehow he finds himself opening his mouth and snaking his tongue out to thoroughly lick the Headmaster's fingers instead.

**  
**

Their eyes are locked together the whole time.  Clint's dick is going stiff.

**  
**

"Good boy."  Coulson says and draws his wet fingers away.  He uses them to pinch out the lit end of the cigarette.  He steps closer, crowding Clint into the brick wall.  

**  
**

"I expect you to clean up this mess, Mr. Barton. No more using school grounds as your ashtray. You'll pick up every cigarette butt you've left here."  The hand with the cigarette settles over Clint's hip, fingers sliding down to push open the front pocket of his track pants.  Headmaster Coulson's fingers shove the cigarette into Clint's pocket.

**  
**

Clint is hard, so fucking hard.  He licks his lips, tries to speak. Finally manages a faint, "Yes, Sir."

 

"Cigarettes are filthy things, Mr. Barton.  You shouldn't put filthy things in such a lovely mouth."  He brushes the pad of his thumb across Clint's bottom lip and then starts to turn away.

**  
**

Clint can't stop himself, there's something low and dark inside of him that responds to this man. It scares him and excites him.  

**  
**

This time he's the one who reaches out, wraps his hand around the Headmaster's elbow.  "Maybe I like filthy things in my mouth."  He pauses a beat too long before adding, "Sir."

**  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kid is beautiful, Phil thinks. Gorgeous and full of spirit and he’d look so lovely kneeling at Phil’s feet, all that barely contained strength bent to Phil’s will. There’s something about him, the way he looks at Phil from under his eyelashes maybe, the way he seems to both lean into and away from Phil whenever they pass in the hall -- whatever it is, Phil’s played this game long enough to know what the outcome will be most of the time. He’s learned to be careful, to choose wisely or not at all. Sometimes denial is the most delicious choice at all, the slow buildup that leads to nothing but frustration.
> 
> He’d honestly thought that would be the play here. Just enough back and forth to keep the edge on things with no real pay off. He enjoys a certain level of discomfort and the last three weeks he’s enjoyed seeing that discomfort on Barton’s face. It keeps things interesting, makes his professional role as Headmaster Coulson something that can exist in harmony along with the more personal desires that stay carefully hidden most of the time. This one is dangerous, the temptation so hard to resist in such close quarters. It makes the game all the sweeter

That damn archery kid, Phil fumes to himself, needs to be taken down a peg or twelve. He is unnecessarily short with the girls giggling in the hallway when he rounds the corner to his office, slamming his door and locking it to stew away with his thoughts.   
  


He sits in the big leather chair by the window and looks out at the playing field. As luck would have it, Barton is putting out markers for something, even though classes are done for the day. Perhaps he’s trying to get into Phil’s good books by prepping for tomorrow’s lessons a day early. Phil opens the globe shaped bar his predecessor left and pours himself an end-of-the-week finger of whiskey, leaning back to watch Barton lay out the rest of his course.   
  


As Phil takes a drink he realises his fingers still smell like Barton’s cigarette, and he cringes.

  
But then he takes another whiff.   
  


On the field, Clint has finished laying out his course, but instead of going back towards the school to finish up for the day, he stops and takes off his shirt. Phil leans forward and watches as Clint then stoops to take off his jogging pants too, leaving him in nothing but a pair of silky looking running shorts and a pair of sneakers.   
  


Phil’s mouth goes dry and with a start he realises that not only is he still breathing in Clint’s cigarette smell but his cock is pressing against the seam of his pants, too.

It twitches when Clint drops to the grass and starts doing press ups, and he doesn’t care how unprofessional it is - it’s a Friday afternoon and no one can see him up here in his office - Phil undoes his zipper…  
  


He eases his fly apart and pulls his underwear down enough to get his hand around his dick.  He thinks about pressing the head of his cock against Clint's lips and ordering him to lick.  

Would he do that as eagerly, as sweetly, as he'd licked Phil's fingers?

That smart mouth of his had been plump and soft under Phil's thumb.  Lips too pretty and pink for a boy.

Phil gives himself a slow stroke, his eyes still affixed on the muscular body on the playing field below.   He watches as Clint moves through a series of exercises, his body at once graceful and powerful as he works through each pose.  The press ups give way to lunges and squats, the running shorts clinging to the firm globes of his ass as he bends and stretches.   They ride up on his thighs and dip down on his hips until they are more a tease than anything else.   He keeps up a slow steady pace, and even from a distance Phil can see the light sheen of sweat break out on his skin despite the coolness of the afternoon.

Phil thinks about how delicious Clint would taste and smell right now.  The raw tang of sweat and musk between his cheeks and at the base of his cock where his balls pressed tight against his body.  He imagines spreading Clint open and licking his way into his tight little hole with slow strokes of his tongue until the young man is panting and begging for more.

In between each exercise Clint pauses and stretches, arms going over his head so that the muscles of his shoulders and chest flex and shift under all that golden skin.  A couple of times he turns to look in the direction of the administration building and Phil would swear that the kid’s eyes are seeking out his office.  Almost like he knows Phil’s watching.  Like this little show is all for Phil’s benefit.

The kid is beautiful, Phil thinks.  Gorgeous and full of spirit and he’d look so lovely kneeling at Phil’s feet, all that barely contained strength bent to Phil’s will.  There’s something about him, the way he looks at Phil from under his eyelashes maybe, the way he seems to both lean into and away from Phil whenever they pass in the hall -- whatever it is, Phil’s played this game long enough to know what the outcome will be most of the time.   He’s learned to be careful, to choose wisely or not at all.  Sometimes denial is the most delicious choice at all, the slow buildup that leads to nothing but frustration.

He’d honestly thought that would be the play here.  Just enough back and forth to keep the edge on things with no real pay off.  He enjoys a certain level of discomfort and the last three weeks he’s enjoyed seeing that discomfort on Barton’s face.  It keeps things interesting, makes his professional role as Headmaster Coulson something that can exist in harmony along with the more personal desires that stay carefully hidden most of the time.  This one is dangerous, the temptation so hard to resist in such close quarters.  It makes the game all the sweeter

This time is seems that the archery kid has made the choice for him with his “sir” that has nothing to do with respect and his "Maybe I like filthy things in my mouth.”  

The thought of it makes him shudder, his hand on his dick moving a little faster.   He’s stroking his cock with a light touch, fingers wrapped loosely around the shaft.  He’ll give that little fucker a mouthful, he thinks.  Put him on his knees and fuck those soft pink lips until they’re swollen and bruised.  He watches Clint on the field, his arms straining as he holds himself in plank pose.  Phil imagines burying his hands in that dirty blonde hair and using it to force Clint’s face down until he’s choking on Phil’s big cock.  No gentleness for this one.  He thinks about shoving his dick down Clint’s throat until he gags, his eyes tearing up as he tries to gasp for breath.

Outside Clint has moved onto squat thrusts, his compact athletic body making the difficult move seem simple.  Phil imagines that powerful body under him, rising up to meet him as he pushes into Clint’s tight ass.  For all his talk and pouting pink lips, Phil would bet Clint’s inexperienced when it comes to men.  A hand job or a blow job maybe, but that ass of his won’t have been touched.  

Not yet at least, not until Phil gets his hands on it.

It’s that thought that pushes Headmaster Coulson over the edge.  His come spills over his hand in a hot splash, his eyes still locked on Clint.  

In the field below the young man has finished his warm-up and paused to glance back in the direction of Phil’s office one last time before he picks up his bow and knocks an arrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Coulson has a camera hidden in here, he suddenly thinks, and all of this will be captured on film. Yet more evidence for Clint’s continued transgressions against Coulson’s sense of propriety…
> 
>  
> 
> Maybe, he'll be summoned to Coulson's office after tomorrow's exhibition. Coulson pointing toward one of the chairs across his desk and ordering Clint to sit down without ever saying a word.
> 
>  
> 
> “Care to explain this?” Coulson would say, voice calm and deadly. He’d probably have a boner though; Clint’s sure he’s seen the guy’s cock twitch at least twice during his regular dressing downs; Coulson loves it at least as much as Clint does.
> 
> **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is truly a combined effort. AdamantSteve wrote it a couple of months ago and then I filed it away to play around with and didn't make time to do it until this week. I monkeyed around with it a good bit and add a few more details and an extra scene or two because this universe is just too damn fun to play around with. And so this chapter went from 1100 words to 2500 words...whoops.
> 
> Oh, I've had a couple of people ask if this story is set at the same time as the companion piece. In my head, no. This one takes place a couple of years after The Headmaster's Office. Clint is 20 and Coulson is 35 or so. (The other story is still here on Ao3, but I've temporarily locked it down so you have to have an account to view it.)
> 
> **

Clint finishes his workout and stacks up the field markers, making sure his ass is pointed at the administration building where he’s 90% sure Headmaster Coulson’s watching him every time he bends over.  The windows of Coulson's office are deep set and angled so that  it's impossible to see in from the outside, but Clint remembers from his internship interview that they look out over the athletic fields.

He’s half tempted to light up right there; stand in the middle of the field with a cigarette plain as day just to see what the Headmaster will do. Will he storm outside and pluck the cigarette out of Clint's mouth again? Will he make Clint lick his fingers again? A little shiver runs through him at that thought, at the memory of Coulson's fingers pressed right up against his lips, the way they felt on his tongue.

But, there might be students around and Clint doesn’t want to deal with even more of their gossip. The damn giggling and tittering he puts up with during lessons is enough.

Instead, he grabs the bottle of water he brought out and takes a deep drink before tipping the rest of it over his head. Hardly necessary but satisfying nonetheless. Besides, thinking about Coulson glowering at him and chastising him has Clint a little hot, and he needs to cool down. The splash of cold water cascading down over his head and neck makes his nipples pebble up hard and tight, goosebumps breaking out across his skin.

Is Headmaster Coulson watching him from his office right now? Are his knowing blue eyes roaming over Clint's body?

How much would it take to push Coulson over the edge? What would Clint have to do to make the man step over the line? There are other teachers - heck, even students - who smoke all the time, but none of them seem to enrage Coulson as much as Clint’s transgressions seem to. Perhaps that’s what keeps him transgressing. Clint’s never felt so special before. He likes it when Headmaster Coulson's focus zeroes in on him. It's like walking a knife edge, thrilling but dangerous. Something about Coulson makes Clint want to push just to see how far he can go.

Clint tosses his shirt over his shoulder and makes his way back to the locker room to put away the markers and make sure everything’s set for tomorrow when there’s an archery exhibition hosted by Broodmoar’s fledging archery team and the neighboring boy's school. The Broodmoar team’s pretty dire, so Clint doesn’t have high hopes, but still, he’ll do what he can with what he’s got.

He’d usually just head back to his little apartment attached to the Headmaster's quarters, but today, perhaps because of Coulson and all his rules, Clint decides to use the communal showers instead. Broodmoar's an all girls' school, but there are separate locker rooms for visiting teams and the occasional coed event. Clint knows a few of the male instructors make use of the boys' locker rooms after workouts. Even though he's not actually faculty, Clint's not a Broodmoar student either. There’s no one around this time in the evening anyway, and he needs to get himself together before he runs into Coulson again.

Whatever, if he’s breaking a rule he’s sure Coulson’ll come and let him know about it.

In the deserted locker room, he strips out of his clothes and throws them over a bench.  He grabs a towel and steps into the tiled shower room. There are soap and shampoo dispensers mounted below each shower head.   He pumps some in his hand and examines it before he turns the water on.  The soap’s nothing particularly fancy but the bland minty smell is an improvement over dirt and sweat and it will work to get him clean.

It’s thinking about Coulson that has Clint wrapping a soapy hand around his cock once the water’s warm enough to step under, imagining him walking in and looking Clint up and down as he’s so fond of doing before telling Clint off for whatever the hell it is this time. That slow drag of Coulson’s eyes up and down Clint’s body, assessing every plane of him, every facet, that makes Clint feel like he’s a particularly delicious piece of meat.

He can just imagine the Headmaster's put upon, "Mr. Barton, you're not allowed to make use of the facilities." He pictures Coulson, standing in the open doorway of the shower room in his immaculate suit while Clint is stripped down and bare under the water.

When Clint had first been tapped for the Broodmoar internship program, some senior in his classes at Wharington College had joked about how old fashioned the school was, how it still permitted corporal punishment.  He’d made a crack about all the girls at Broodmoar getting off on spanking. It was a joke, but even so, Clint can’t help but imagine Coulson bending him over the big mahogany desk Clint had his initial interview at before having Clint count out the spanks Coulson rhythmically doles out. He thinks about Headmaster Coulson ordering him to stay still and take it, those elegant hands delivering blow after blow on Clint's ass.

Clint reaches back and runs his hand down his soapy crack a few times more than necessary, letting his fingers catch on the rim of his hole as his other hand works his cock. He has lube back in his room but this is somehow better, knowing he’s jerking off right here in Coulson’s domain.

And fuck, he shouldn't have thought about Coulson's domain because now he can't help imagining picking the lock to Coulson's private quarters and jerking himself off in the Headmaster's bed. He thinks about stretching out on Coulson's bed and working himself open, finger by finger until his hole is loose and sloppy with lube. The Headmaster walking in and finding him there, wrapping a hand around the base of Clint's cock like a vise.

That thought sends him too close to the edge and Clint has to reach out and adjust the water temperature until it's just a shade too cool to be comfortable to calm himself down. He doesn't want to come too soon, he wants to draw it out a little longer. He turns his back to the shower spray and lets the water pound over him.

Maybe Coulson has a camera hidden in here, he suddenly thinks, and all of this will be captured on film. Yet more evidence for Clint’s continued transgressions against Coulson’s sense of propriety…

Maybe, he'll be summoned to Coulson's office after tomorrow's exhibition. Coulson pointing toward one of the chairs across his desk and ordering Clint to sit down without ever saying a word.

“Care to explain this?” Coulson would say, voice calm and deadly. He’d probably have a boner though; Clint’s sure he’s seen the guy’s cock twitch at least twice during his regular dressing downs; Coulson loves it at least as much as Clint does.

Coulson would probably have the footage up on his computer monitor, making a show of turning it around to face Clint.  Clint would shrug and pretend like he didn’t give a shit, maybe even put his feet up on Coulson’s desk, just to make Coulson go really red with rage.

“Showering, sir,” he’d reply, bored as ever.

Coulson might even have a cane, Clint suddenly thinks, imagines Coulson pointing at the screen with it and detailing all the things wrong with the picture. Maybe he’s totally repressed and can’t stand how turned on he is by Clint. Maybe not.

The Headmaster gets a look in his eyes sometimes when he reaches out and grabs Clint in passing, that look that makes Clint think he knows exactly what he's doing. Like it's a game and Coulson's going to be the winner, but it sure will be fun for Clint to play along.

Anyway, he’d tell Clint off for the fingers buried in his ass right now, pull him out of his chair and push him over the desk to yank down Clint’s pants and to check for himself just how easily Clint opens up.

The Headmaster would crowd him against the desk and put his fingers against Clint's lips just like he had behind the gym. "Lick."

"What are you -" Clint would start to protest but the Headmaster would cut him off with one harsh slap across his ass.  

"Lick, or I'll take you dry."

Clint would do it then, lick and suck the Headmaster's fingers until they were wet with his spit when Coulson pulled them away.

“Filthy,” Coulson would say then, fingers worming their way inside Clint. He'd be rough, those long fingers pressing and pushing and spreading Clint open too fast with nothing but spit to ease the way.  It would hurt enough that Clint's breath would catch even as he pushed back for more.

"Reprehensible behaviour,” Coulson would say, his belt clinking as he pulled down his pants and lined his cock up against Clint’s hole. The head of his dick would feel enormous against the tight pucker of Clint's asshole.

“Are you sorry?” Coulson would ask as he slid himself into Clint, pushing and pushing, Clint’s body helpless to resist the unforgiving intrusion but pushing back into it nonetheless. He's never taken it up the ass before, never had anything more than his own fingers inside him. Coulson's dick would be brutal in the best possible way, filling him up until Clint can't possibly take another inch.

“Sorry for what?” Clint would retort. Even in his fantasy, Clint’s already breathless.

In the shower, Clint fucks back onto his fingers and bites his lips. He wonders how big Coulson's dick is, wonders if it's as long and thick in real life as it is in Clint's fantasies.

He's spent hours thinking about the Headmaster's dick.

Coulson would start fucking him, punctuating each harsh thrust with another of Clint’s transgressions. “Smoking. Insubordination. Bad attitude,” he’d start with, but as he got faster and faster and somehow impossibly deeper, he’d devolve into “filthy little slut, goddamn cocktease,” and Clint would grind back into it and nod his head helplessly.  

The Headmaster's hands would be tight on his hips, clenching down hard enough to leave bruises on Clint's skin. The edge of the desk would be pressing into Clint's belly, his dick leaving little smears of precome on the shiny surface every time Coulson fucked into him.

“You fucking love it, Coulson,” Clint says out loud, voice echoing across the tiled shower room as his hand moves faster on his cock.  He can feel his balls going tight, his hole clenching down on his fingers as he gets closer and closer. He envisions Coulson bottoming out and holding himself there as he comes deep inside Clint, marking him up  from the inside.  

“Give it to me,” he says, coming with a grunt and coating his hand with come that is washed almost instantly down the drain.

Clint rests his forehead against the tiles and gets his breath back, panting and still moving his hips to the rhythm set by the ghost of Coulson as the water sluices him off.  He lets out a little moan of pleasure as he slides his fingers out of his ass.

He finishes his shower and dries off before putting his dirty clothes back on, a simple pair of tracksuit pants and a tshirt. He can’t be bothered to find his underwear or the shorts he'd had on underneath so decides to freeball it on his way back to his quarters - not like anyone’s gonna notice; it's Friday night and the campus will be deserted.

He packs the last of his stuff up and flips off the lights on his way out the door back into the main school building.

Whereupon he immediately bumps into Headmaster Coulson.

Clint stumbles back, nearly tripping over his own feet until the Headmaster's hands settle on his shoulders, steadying him.

"Mr. Barton," the Headmaster's cool eyes examine Clint, taking in his wet hair and the sweat dampened clothes Clint had pulled back on after his shower.  "You should be more careful."

Clint feels the dull flush that starts at his neck and slowly spreads over his cheeks. Fuck his life. He should have remembered that Coulson routinely makes unofficial rounds of Broodmoar's buildings after hours.  A few minutes earlier and the Headmaster would have walked in on him jerking it in the shower.

He doesn't know if he feels relieved or disappointed that didn't happen.  He shivers at the thought, the combination of the cool evening air and Coulson's warm hands on his shoulders a delicious contrast.  "Yeah, sure.  Sorry 'bout that," he manages.

The Headmaster leans in close and even though Clint's got an inch of height on him, it feels like the other man is looming over him.  "Sorry about that, _Sir_ , " Coulson prompts.  There's a hint of whiskey on his breath.

Clint subjects Coulson to his own examination then.  The camel coat he was wearing earlier is absent and his suit coat is open.  The tie around his neck is loosened, the knot messy and haphazard. In his three weeks at Broodmoar, Clint’s never seen Coulson looking less than pristinely put together, no matter what the hour.  

Clint wonders suddenly just what the Headmaster's been up to in the last few hours. Despite the fact he just jerked off, he feels his dick start to go hard. The slick material of his track pants brush against his bare skin, reminding him that he’s naked underneath.

The Headmaster's hands tighten on his shoulders, silently reinforcing the fact that Clint hasn't yet apologized to his satisfaction.  

Clint feels reckless, the burn of something dark fueling him to step forward until he’s chest to chest with Coulson.  Not quite touching, but close enough that he can feel the heat emanating from the other man. “I don’t know, _Sir_.” He exaggerates the word enough that it sound like an insult instead of a sign of respect.  “Seems like you bumped into me, too.”

Coulson looks at him, his eyes narrowing and his mouth tightening.  For a brief instant, Clint thinks he’s gone too far.  Coulson takes a steadying breath, his hands loosening and then falling away from Clint’s shoulders.  “I think it’s time that you and I come to an understanding, Mr. Barton.  I’ll address this  little attitude problem of yours.”  Each word is clipped and sharp and even though he’s let Clint go, neither of them steps back.

“I’ll have you for dinner tomorrow night.  Promptly at 7:00.”  Coulson’s mouth curves into a self-satisfied smile that’s anything but pleasant.  “Don’t be late.”

The Headmaster turns on his heel and walks away before Clint can respond.

Clint’s left staring after him.  

Coulson’s words echo in his head over and over.  Not come to dinner or we’ll have dinner, but _I’ll have you for dinner_.

After a long moment, Clint shakes his head to clear it and forces himself to start moving.  The walk to his rooms takes twice as long as it should because his dick is hard and he’s breathing like he just ran a race.

_I’ll have you for dinner._

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